The Postmaster's Daughter Part 20

"Robinson--go home!" he said, in sepulchral tones.

The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror.

He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben.

"Go home!" hissed Furneaux, leaning out.

Then the other looked up.

"Oh, it's you, sir!" he gasped, sighing with relief.

"Man, you've had the closest shave of your life! There's a fellow below there who shoots at sight."

"But I'm on duty, sir."

"You'll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!"

"I--"

"Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don't do as I bid you. And that would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a particularly smart man in Steynholme."

"Very well, sir, if _you're_ satisfied, I _must_ be."

And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear of the supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced.

Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into a real good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazing spell-bound at the felt hat.

"Now, young lady, you're coming with me," he said, grinning amiably. "The Suss.e.x constabulary is quelled for the hour."

"But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!" said Doris, and it was notable that even Hart remained silent.

The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question.

"I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society," went on the girl. "It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from walking about without shoes or stockings."

"Don't tell me any more," was Furneaux's surprising comment. "I'll do the rest. But let me remark, Miss Martin, that I experienced great difficulty, not so long ago, in persuading friend Grant that you were the only important witness this case has provided thus far. Playing in a burlesque, were you? We've been similarly engaged to-night. The farce must stop now. It makes way for grim tragedy. Not one word of to-night's events to anyone, please.... Are you ready?"

Doris stood up. Hart thrust the negro's head at the detective.

"Fouche," he said, "do you honestly mean slinging your hook without making any inquiry as to Owd Ben?"

"Oh, the ghost!" said Doris eagerly. "The Bateses would think of him, of course. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house about the time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be an agent of the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter quarreled with him and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing to his age, I believe, and was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. At last he was released, being then a very old man, and he came straight here and strangled his daughter. It is quite a terrible story. He was found dead by her side. Then people remembered that she had spoken of someone scaring her by looking in through that small window some nights previously. Naturally, a ghost was soon manufactured. I really wonder why the man who rebuilt and renamed the place in the middle of last century didn't have the window removed altogether."

"Glad I began the work of demolition tonight," said Hart, and, for once, his tone was serious.

"Why did you never tell me that sc.r.a.p of history, Doris?" inquired Grant.

"You liked the place so much that father and I agreed not to mar your enthusiasm by recalling an unpleasant legend," she said frankly. "Not that what I've related isn't true. The record appears in a Suss.e.x Miscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven o'clock!"

The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written notes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, for some reason, was aware that the detective repressed an obvious reference to the last occasion on which the girl had heard that same clock announce the hour.

Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off immediately.

When they were gone, Hart stared fixedly at an empty decanter.

"My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many virtues and few vices," he mused aloud.

Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his crony poring over the book which, singularly enough, figured prominently on each occasion when the specter-producing window was markedly in evidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded cheerfully at a dust-laden bottle.

"What is there in 'The Talisman' which needed so much research?" he asked.

"Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott," was the answer.

"Are these they?" And Hart read:

One thing is certain in our Northern land; Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit, Give each precedence to their possessor, Envy, that follows on such eminence, As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck's trace, Shall pull them down each one.

"Yes," said Grant.

"Love isn't mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You're in luck, my boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. What is a lyme-hound?"

"'Lyme,' or 'leam,' is the old-time word for 'leash.'"

"Good!" said Hart. "That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner every day, Jack. He's a tonic!"

Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany Doris to the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the broad village street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he tapped her on the shoulder and said pleasantly:

"Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don't worry. The tangle will right itself in time."

"Poor Mr. Grant is suffering," she ventured to murmur.

"And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I'll wait here till you are behind a locked door."

"No one in Steynholme will hurt me," she said.

"You never can tell. I'm not taking any chances to-night, however."

So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a hand to the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine June night in England is never really dark, so the two could not only see each other but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply on his heel, was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker in the blind of a ground-floor room in P.C. Robinson's abode.

The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window.

Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

"As if you didn't know," laughed Furneaux.

Robinson turned a key, and looked out.

"Oh, it's you, sir?" he cried.